


A Tempest Breaks

by theplatinthehat



Category: Good Omens, Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley can't read, Gen, Kate Tempest, M/M, Poetry, but he still has an appreciation for words, dyslexic!crowley, honestly the headcanon that crowley struggles to read is one of my favourite things, just in a different way, spoken word poetry, this is what happens when you leave me to listen to kate tempest's discography, while i'm still obsessed with good omens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 14:30:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21163178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplatinthehat/pseuds/theplatinthehat
Summary: Crowley loves Aziraphale, and Aziraphale loves books.Crowley does not love books.Or, the tale of how Crowley comes to love spoken word poetry.





	A Tempest Breaks

Crowley loves Aziraphale, and Aziraphale loves books.

Crowley does not love books.

He really wishes that he did love books – there’s nothing quite like seeing his angel light up over a first edition Dickens, or spend hours poring over an Austen. Down the centuries, Aziraphale has drunk up the human’s writing, as though it’s a sea that will one day run dry – and not the hubbling, bubbling river of life that it is.

There’s nothing more that Crowley would like to do than curl up with a good merlot, a great book and the best company that six thousand years on Earth has to offer. To indulge the angel in his favourite pleasure (well – one of them anyway).

But his cursed eyes betray him every time.

(It’s not quite every time, is it? He did get through _The_ _Extremely Big Book of Astronomy_, one stumbling sentence at a time. Those pretty pictures had helped. Nebulae. Planets. Galaxies_._)

Letters get jumbled, words get mumbled and any meaning is lost to the wind. There’s a reason he hates writing reports.

And poetry. Oh poetry – that’s the worst. All those spaces, and all that language and all those _feelings. _Yes, Aziraphale can wax lyrical about Keats and Yeats and Blake all he likes; their enjambment, their form and their stanzas.

No – he stays well away from reading those.

But listening.

Crowley’s always been very good at listening.

Listening to someone, well, it’s the quickest way to their heart. Ask questions, and most humans will clam up about their deepest desires. But a gentle nod, a sympathetic noise, they’ll confess to everything – everything they’ve done, and everything they want to do.

He supposes that’s why he likes Shakespeare so much. Only the actors get to read the words – the audience just listens. And Shakespeare always had such beautiful words. A rich tapestry of love and loss and _life. _Words that are meant to be said, meant to be shouted, meant to be sung.

He’d always pass on the sonnets though; he’d tried – honestly, but they just didn’t stick. (Gave his signed copies to Aziraphale who’d beamed in delight after that hellish trip.)

But one day, in a bar in the back-end of Chicago, he discovers it.

Spoken-word poetry.

Crowley _loves _it.

He has a go himself, he’s not very good,

They give him advice – make a move

On that angel, they say.

Crowley just smiles, “That’s not gonna happen right now.

But maybe one day. One day”.

He loves to listen, to bury himself in

The metre and the flow,

The passion and the show,

It’s _alive _

And so human.

(He’s also the one that started that trend, you know the one. Loved by some, abhorred by others – you snap your fingers when you agree; polite applause for a powerful clause.)

He follows the scene around, which is honestly an easy feat because suddenly it’s _everywhere. _

In every nearly empty back room,

in every packed-out theatre there are people

finding their voice and

finally saying what they mean.

There are happy poems,

sad poems,

love poems,

bad poems,

and every kind of poem under the sun.

Poets,

who never knew that’s what they were,

now stand in front of a mic

and plead with the world,

_I am here,_

_Please **listen **to me._

And Crowley listens.

He stumbles across her in south London – the next generation poet. A young woman with a mass of blonde curls, an East-End cadence and the spirit of the city lodged deep in her chest. A wordsmith who brings characters to life with a beautiful verse – these brand-new ancients with their stories of tragedy and victory.

She spins a tale of broken hearts and empty minds

And how seven seeming strangers are linked by a second in time.

Crowley listens.

That night he runs back to the bookshop.

“Angel, angel,” he says breathlessly, “I’ve got a new poet for you.”

Hand reaches for a book, but the demon shakes his head. Aziraphale frowns at the disc but shrugs and says,

“Let’s have a listen.”

They dig something up – an old boombox that’s been hidden under books and scrolls and even a mug since the early 90’s. They don’t plug it in (not realizing they need to), then curl up with a good merlot and great company to heed her words.

And if at 04:18 a crack of thunder rips across the sky with an Old Testament fury, well, that’s just a co-incidence – not a miracle.

A tempest breaks.

The clouds open and the rain drums down, down, down, like it did on poor Noah. The people of Soho, leave the dark warmth of their homes, stumble out into the storm – offering up their bodies to be purged by this supernatural squall.

They get drenched in the downpour.

And up above, a celestial pair stand laughing on the roof of a bookshop – perfectly dry under their tartan umbrella. They’re watching the humans fumble about in the rain; some delighted, others drained.

It’s a cold night in the city,

Let’s call her London.

So,

If we look from above

Here’s a demon and an angel,

Standing sentinel.

They’ve been here before,

Side-by-side,

Facing a storm,

Like in Eden.

They’ve fought more,

And loved more,

Than anyone thought they would

Or should.

It’s 04:18,

And dawn is just a sheen

Of pink below the

Urban horizon,

Two souls stand together,

And face the storm, unflinching.

They whisper, “We’re on our own side,”

A promise by the storm

Amplified.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on Tumblr - I'm @theplatinthehat
> 
> This is what happens when you develop an obsession for the works of the marvellous Kate Tempest, on top of your obsession with Good Omens. Most of the references in here are from "Let Them Eat Chaos" which I cannot recommend enough. "Everybody Down" is also a very worthwhile listen. Please feel free to drop into my inbox to yell about your favourite track - I am guaranteed to yell back.
> 
> I appreciate the irony of a piece about spoken word poetry being written down. I'm looking to try and record a version of this as a podfic, but we'll see how that goes (if anyone else wants to take a bash, please feel free)
> 
> This is the first time I've tried anything like this, so I really hope you enjoy it! I had fun working on it :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Tempest Breaks [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22136014) by [AJfanfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJfanfic/pseuds/AJfanfic)


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